


An Encounter on Tradeston Bridge

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Homelessness, M/M, Reincarnation, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:09:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is drunk and ready to jump off the bridge into the depths of River Clyde just to see how that might work for him when a strange man in a suit stops him. And he seems oddly familiar for someone he's never met before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Encounter on Tradeston Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Just wrote a short fic because Glasgow is cool and I love it, and it is extremely important for me to pretend I am not currently participating in NaNoWriMo.

Merlin is drunk.

It’s maybe four in the afternoon, grey foggy rainy - as you do - and he is standing on that new squiggly pedestrian bridge that crosses the river, blinking as it sways as people walk past him. Walk over the tempting dark filthy depths of the Clyde, like they don’t even notice.

He looks down, blinking. He feels unreal. He breathes in salt wind and seagulls, his own bitter years in this city, looks up and sees the high rise in the Gorbals that he grew up in, where he’s not really been since his mother died and he lost their house except for a few nights he’s slept on a landing, shivering and pretending he doesn’t notice the way they scowl at him, hoping nobody recognises Hunith’s boy, wearing a beanie and a hoodie with holes in the sleeves, huddled in a filthy sleeping bag in front of their doors. He thinks about what he has to lose (not much comes to mind). Looks in the water again, squinting, and can’t see anything. Thinks, they wouldn’t see me from here. They wouldn’t even know. I will jump. I want to jump.

He repeats it out loud. As though to make it real. Quietly. “I want to jump.”

And then louder: “I’m going to jump.” and he squeezes the white metal railing with knuckles just as white, hands numb and red from the cold.

“I’m going to jump,” he says, and thinks, _I am pished, I might die, if I jump I will die and this might kill me and I never really knew how to swim anyway._ And it’s not a happy thought exactly - he’s not had one of those in a long time - but he’s relieved, sort of, carefully hopeful. I might be free. When I think of the things I have left to lose, not much at all comes to mind. He starts to climb, stumbling and slipping, just a bit more.

“I am jumping.” It’s going to be so easy now. He just needs to let go. And then.

A hand on his shoulder, heavy, warm, sharp. Steadying, grounding him, making his fuzzy brain grind to a halt, wait a moment, not quite yet, we need to have a wee chat first, you and I. It’s holding him fast and he can’t get away.

“No, mate, you’re not.”

Merlin stumbles around, heart hammering, would fall if it wasn’t for the stranger’s iron grip on his shoulder. A beautiful blond in a grey suit, cheeks red, breathing like he was running, hair - slightly overgrown - tousled in the wind. Merlin looks at him with glassy eyes, sees all this but notices nothing. He’s here, this strange man is holding onto him, he is here living and breathing with a frantic heartbeat and the whisky in his blood making it hard to see things as they are, making it hard to forget that the Earth isn’t spinning, plummeting through space like a bullet like a meteor like a man who jumps to his death

He is all of that and not losing the last hint of daylight in the muddy water as he sinks, not a body for someone to drag out of River Clyde. All he ever wanted to be.

“You what,” is all he can manage.

“You’re not jumping off this bridge, man. It’s really not the best day for a swim, I don’t think.”

Merlin huffs, closes his eyes. 

“Wasn’t going for a fucking swim, was I?”

The stranger frowns. Nods.

“Aye, didn’t think so. Dressed like that. Had a few as well, haven’t you.”

Like he needs an answer to that. “Let me go.”

“Nah, man, don’t think I will. Don’t think you’re quite up for taking care of yourself today.”

“I’m grand.“ Lies. But he doesn’t really feel like chatting right now, and what’s a lie, anyway. Just words.

The stranger laughs. Well, not really, but something of the like. It’s a dry, sad chuckle and a crooked smile with crooked teeth.

“I’ve seen grand, pal, and _you _are not it.”__

__The sound that escapes Merlin’s throat is another one of those sad laughs that mean nothing like what laughter should mean, by people who can’t even remember when others laugh anyway. Same as that man’s laugh. A strange man in a suit, as sad as a suicidal junkie on a bridge. How weird is that._ _

__“So,” says strange blond man in a suit. “Are we calling an ambulance or the police?”_ _

__“Neither?”_ _

__“Well I’m not leaving you here on your own.”_ _

__“Why’s that then?”_ _

__“Why would I leave you here to off yourself when I could save you.”_ _

__“You think you can save me then, eh, pal?” In which pal sounds like filth and means anything but a friend although something more than a stranger but I have yet to figure out what exactly._ _

__“Could.”_ _

__“Well what do we need the pigs for, then, if _you_ can save my arse all by your merry fucking self.”_ _

__No question mark. He’s too tired for that shite._ _

__The stranger snorts, tilts his head as if to get a better look, and maybe he sees something that Merlin never did (like any of it being worth anything or that something about him might be worth saving after all, never mind whether that can be done or not) because he shakes his head and closes his eyes and smiles a bit and says, “fine.”_ _

__“Eh?”_ _

__“I said, fine. Not calling the police. Not calling an ambulance. But you’re coming with me.”_ _

__“Like fuck I am.”_ _

__“No, you fucking are, and that’s final. Stop whining and let me get you sorted.”_ _

__“I’m none of your business.”_ _

__“Well you need to be someone’s business and since _you_ don’t seem to care -”_ _

__He falls silent, and Merlin swallows and blinks and wonders how drunk he is, and then stumbles as the man starts walking towards the Southside, still holding Merlin’s shoulder in that near-painful-but-can’t-quite-reach-that-deep sort of grip._ _

__And instead of fighting it, he goes. Maybe because he’s tired, or because he’s drunk as fuck, because he already gave up and he’s not up for fighting anymore, again, yet -_ _

__He goes._ _

__Not because he trusts this beautiful man who would run to him and make him stop. Make him want to be okay because. It’s something about him. He doesn’t want to hurt him. They wouldn’t hurt each other. Maybe something like trust after all. An echoing familiarity that he can’t explain or place._ _

__But then again. What does ever make sense? On a day like this._ _

__The man lives in Pollokshields. His flat is completely ordinary - although much nicer than anywhere Merlin ever lived, even back when he still had somewhere to call a home - and for some reason it startles him. He wasn’t expecting normal, not today, although come to think of it there is no reason why things would be any different from before. They aren’t, it’s just him. But this man is so far from anything in his life has ever been before, and somehow still kind of real. A real, living breathing existing thing, like Merlin should be. (And he wonders if the other feels like he isn’t any of that either, just like him.)_ _

__The man closes the door behind them and finally lets go of Merlin who slumps against the door, head spinning, thinking about how he isn’t dead and how he’s not quite sure if he likes that at all._ _

__“I’m kind of lost,” he murmurs mostly to himself but the other is there and listening. He doesn’t know if he likes it. He probably likes it. His head is spinning out of control._ _

__“Most of us are,” the man says, turning away from him to fill the kettle and flick it on, to give him some room to work through the endless tangles of his mind. He’s making tea. Merlin feels only too strange. Overwhelmed. Like he can’t breathe._ _

__There is a heavy silence settling between them, and Merlin can feel it filling with questions he doesn’t want to answer. Like who are you, where do you live, what the fuck were you thinking. What would your mother say. And things, too, that people often say too easily without thinking about how much someone like him doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need it._ _

__Get the fuck out of here. Who are you anyway? If you only tried. See, a young lad like yourself with all this potential. What’s wrong with you, and get a fucking job. All that sort of useless words he can’t eat, can’t use to keep himself warm at night, that or not seeing him when he leans against the wall in the rain, sitting on a piece of cardboard in Dundas Lane with a Greggs paper cup in his nicotine-stained hands. Walking faster, maybe. Sorry pal, train to catch. You’ll just buy drugs anyway. Should have finished school, eh? But mostly like he’s not even there._ _

__He still feels too present. So he hides away with the people he knows will help him not be seen and tell him where to find some mouldy sofa to sleep on. And if he’s up for it, somebody always knows somebody who’ll take him in for the night to share a bed with. Someone knows somebody who will get him drugs to pass the time, because there’s little to do when there’s no home to go to._ _

__And he can hear their thoughts, too. So young, that one. Skin and bones. Someone who’s on display for people to wonder about, to use as an example, to freely ignore. Not a person. What did he do to get here?_ _

__Well, what didn’t he do. To get here, and try and get out of here as well. But not everything works like you plan or intend, and even the most pathetic emergency solutions to the most pressing problems you might have sometimes backfire._ _

__What did he do? Like he even cares anymore._ _

__But the stranger is not saying anything. He makes the tea, _do you want milk?_ and Merlin nods, numb. The mug is warm in his hands, and the stranger doesn’t seem to realise that something is wrong with his ordinary life now that he’s brought some filthy homeless suicidal drunk whoring faggot druggie ned to his house, and now he’s acting like Merlin belongs here, like it’s not fucking weird that they’re here in this flat together like they could be in the same scene of a play and that would be the way things are supposed to be. The status quo. Like that’s how things work in this world, that you save the life of some homeless kid and bring him home and give him a cup of tea. Ask him if he wants milk in his fucking cup of tea, for fuck’s sake._ _

__Something about this is wrong. Something about this makes him want to run and never come back, because this isn’t real life and people like this stranger don’t ask people like him if he wants milk in his tea. It just doesn’t happen. He would run, he would, if he only felt less dazed, less exhausted, less like he doesn’t even really care. Less separate from his own body. Then he would. But he can’t stand, and the bitter taste in the back of his mouth is kind of like destiny and he doesn’t feel like the rules of existence that he’s used to apply now._ _

__See, Merlin’s not dumb. Life just kicked him in the head a few times. Both of these things put together result in the not trusting. The not caring._ _

__Any other time, he would run. He doesn’t trust people. But he will not run now, and not from this man. Not from the strange man in a suit who put a hand on his shoulder when he was about to jump._ _

__The man puts a teacup in his hands and sits next to him on the floor._ _

__“Alright?”_ _

__Merlin chuckles. Dead sound. They both know that sound, and isn’t that strange._ _

__“Right, sorry. Stupid question.” He’s silent for a moment, sips his tea. “I’m Arthur.”_ _

__“Hi, Arthur,” Merlin says. And then he doesn’t know what comes next, so he drinks some of his tea, too hot but might as well, because he can’t control his life, can’t control this right here sitting on a stranger’s floor still drunk and still alive, but he can control how he drinks his tea so he drinks it too fast and burns his tongue and that feels like something at least._ _

__He doesn’t say his name. Arthur doesn’t ask, thank fuck. Doesn’t even look at him like he expects him to return the favour or something. He doesn’t actually seem like he is paying much attention. Merlin looks at him sideways, trying not to be obvious about staring, but Arthur isn’t looking his way so it doesn’t really matter._ _

__The water heater groans. An ambulance drives by, and the wind howls past the windows, rattles something. Rain. It’s warm in the flat, and it smells clean. Merlin keeps drinking his tea. His fingers and toes melt from their deep-frozen state until he can’t feel them anymore._ _

__After a while, Arthur sighs and puts down his tea. Buries his face in his hands. Runs his fingers through his hair. Strange man in a suit. So sad. Merlin looks away, the moment seems too private somehow. Pretty ridiculous, considering he just dragged Merlin back from the edge of death, brought him to his home smelling of piss and whisky and sweat and misery and giving up._ _

__“You know, my dad died last week,” Arthur says._ _

__Merlin doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. Best not._ _

__“I don’t know why I told you that.”_ _

__“Sorry.”_ _

__“Thanks.”_ _

__The silence comes back. Arthur moves to sit closer to Merlin, legs touching, takes a deep breath, and kind of leans against him. Merlin finds he doesn’t mind. The alcohol is giving up, though, and now he feels less brave and hopeless and more shaky. Miserable. Still hopeless, mind, but nothing special. Could probably jump in the Clyde, would definitely drown in five minutes, but why would he. No magic in that. He’s tired._ _

__“How are you?” Arthur asks quietly._ _

__“Not brilliant.”_ _

__“Have anywhere to stay tonight?”_ _

__“No.” Short. Clipped. He doesn’t want to lie, not to Arthur, but he doesn’t want pity either._ _

__“Stay here, then.”_ _

__And there is no pity in that. It’s just a statement, a suggestion from one human to another, a sensible solution to a persistent problem. You have nowhere to stay, I have this flat we’re in, so don’t leave. So easy._ _

__Arthur doesn’t know him at all, and Merlin knows he smells and looks horrible, he’s bony and dirty and probably has pneumonia and HIV or whatever, he’s drunk and hasn’t eaten or showered for days, he has LSD in his pocket and he tried to kill himself just now right in front of this man, he sleeps in empty houses and under bridges and sometimes just on the streets, sometimes walks the night just to keep warm, regularly sells his arse to get high. He’s probably on several people’s to kill list, the amount of money he owes to his dealer is enough to make anyone jump off a bridge, there are parts of town he can’t show face in or he’ll get stabbed. This whole thing about being homeless really spiralled out of his control few years back when he went asking for help from the wrong people. There is nothing about him that is okay. And this strange man in a suit is telling him to stay at his nice house in Pollokshields like that’s normal._ _

__Like people do that._ _

__“Don’t fuck with me, pal,” he says, a bit choked up because he is already thinking of a warm shower, maybe he could wash his clothes, maybe he could sleep alright just this once, and he shouldn’t let himself think that because it’s hardly gonna happen._ _

__“I’m not. You should stay. Take a shower. Eat something.”_ _

__“You can’t do that.”_ _

__“Of course I can. Didn’t drag you off the bridge to throw you back out, did I?”_ _

__“I don’t know.”_ _

__It’s strange. Merlin maybe almost believes him. And Arthur is still leaning against his shoulder like he doesn’t care, like that’s exactly where he wants to be, pressed up against Merlin, not wanting anything in return. And it’s familiar again, strangely something about it makes Merlin feel almost warm inside, like he’s been here before, stared up at those same eyes, felt that same presence next to him before, and he wonders._ _

__He can’t have forgotten. He wouldn’t have. A man like that._ _

__Arthur gets up, slowly, like he doesn’t want to. Gives Merlin a hand, catches him when he sways and stumbles and almost falls. Makes him another cup of tea, they drink in silence._ _

__He hands him a towel, tells him where to find shampoo, gives him clean pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt way too big. Throws his clothes in the washing machine, makes him noodles, and when reality finally catches up with Merlin, when the alcohol starts to properly wear out and he starts to realise how long it’s been since he last got a hit of anything stronger, Arthur holds him as he breaks down, shaking, crying. Strokes his hair off his sweaty brow._ _

__They don’t really talk about it but in the end there is no other option for them, there never was, and they both end up in Arthur’s bed, wrapped around each other, Merlin breathing heavily still shaking tired to the bone, Arthur stroking his hair, holding him close._ _

__And in the curve of his neck, with a gentle kiss, he whispers, “There’s something about you, Merlin. I just can’t put my finger on it.”_ _

__It’s right before he falls asleep that Merlin realises he never told Arthur his name._ _

__He dreams of dragons and knights and magic and the itching feeling of familiarity it brings in its wake remains as he blinks his eyes open to find himself in Arthur’s arms, and it’s not strange, and he can’t quite feel any of the horrible shite his body is about to do to him any second because of all the abuse and chemicals and too much booze, for now he is barely awake and he is just at home and he feels an infinite tenderness for this man he has never met. This strange man in a suit, nothing strange about him. Even the smell of him familiar somehow. The way he breathes when he is asleep. And he is so beautiful._ _

__Merlin closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath and stays there, with Arthur, like he should be. He doesn’t pretend to understand, but it will come. And when Arthur wakes up, slowly blinking in the hazy morning light, and Merlin absently strokes his cheekbones and the arch of his lip, smiling softly like he’s done it before, he’s glad to be alive, and there is hope._ _


End file.
